While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze at eve
Called thy harvest work to leave;
Pray! Ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

2. Traveler, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea;
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

3. Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see;
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

LIV. THE WILL.

Characters.--SWIPES, a brewer; CURRIE, a saddler; FRANK MILLINGTON; and
SQUIRE DRAWL.

Swipes. A sober occasion, this, brother Currie. Who would have thought the
old lady was so near her end?

Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes; and those who live the
longest outlive the most.

Swipes. True, true; but, since we must die and leave our earthly
possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the
old lady her senses when she departed?

Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me she read every word of the
will aloud, and never signed her name better.

Swipes. Had you any hint from the Squire what disposition she made of her
property?

Cur. Not a whisper; the Squire is as close as an underground tomb; but one
of the witnesses hinted to me that she had cut off her graceless nephew,
Frank, without a shilling.

Swipes. Has she, good soul, has she? You know I come in,
then, in right of my wife.

Cur. And I in my own right; and this is no doubt the reason why we have
been called to hear the reading of the will. Squire Drawl knows how things
should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your beer barrels. But
here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course,
you know. [Enter FRANK MILLINGTON.] Your servant, young gentleman. So your
benefactress has left you at last.

Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr.
Millington.

Frank. It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better had I not so often
been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not
her value.

Cur. It is too late to repent, Mast